Toute à toi—pour toujours.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Friday Evening.
[Post-mark, June 27, 1846.]
Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late and I am very tired; having ... while you were sitting by the fire ... been, for my part, driving to Highgate ... now think of that! Also it has done me good, I think, and I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired certainly.
Your letter shall be answered to-morrow—and here is a green answer to your leaves![3]—what leaves? whence and how? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the hedge, snatching at it from the carriage-window. The roses were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of reach; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they do not look for snow-storms in September. No! it was not that, they said. I am belying what they said.
I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever there, I wonder?
Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘impatient,’ inconsiderate—and as for selfishness, I have been uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish. I am not likely to mistake ... to wrench the wrong way ... any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word, when I said that you should decide everything. Could I hold out for November, or October, or for September even, if you choose against? Indeed I could not. We—you will think—I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not—I am too entirely yours.
And so good-night—dearest beloved! Because you have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and earth and ocean to become impassable? Ah well! we shall see! But you shall not see that I deceive you—
I am your very own
Ba.